The great hall was lit by a single brazier. The Duke sat on his obsidian throne, a goblet of wine in his hand, a fur cloak draped over his shoulders. He was older than Herric remembered—grayer, thinner, his eyes still bright with the same cold amusement.

The Duke tilted his head. “I burned a village. The fact that it was yours is incidental. You swore an oath to me, Herric. You broke it when you rode away. The punishment for desertion is death. The punishment for those who harbor a deserter is—well. You saw.”

The Duke reached for a dagger hidden beneath his cloak. Herric’s sword was faster.

“You burned my village,” Herric said. His voice was flat. Not angry. Angry was for men who still had hope.